


Sing Out This Song & I’ll Be There By Your Side

by teenuviel1227



Series: Come What May [2]
Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: But also men6, F/F, Femme6, Fluff, M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, Past Lives, Plot, jae and brian are women in the past and men in the present, pil sungjin and dowoon were men in the past and women in the present, soft smut, there's death but there's reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: In which Jae (Jane) and Brian (Beatrice) are a playwright and courtesan in a past life who start a passionate love affair that spans the ages.





	Sing Out This Song & I’ll Be There By Your Side

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment in this series. I’d recommend reading the prologue (linked below) because it frames the narrative better that way, although it’s by no means necessary. :)
> 
> The prologue to this is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13888755
> 
> Sorry for typos ill proofread tomorrow.
> 
> Hey, everyone! This is for Day 6 of Jaehyungparkian Week, the theme of which is Femme6. :D
> 
> If you guys have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m hosting a [fan art/fan fic fest over here](https://twitter.com/day6sailing/status/968701090828046337) along with a bunch of awesome people and this week is Jaehyungparkian week. Come join the fun! 
> 
> Title is from Come What May from the Moulin Rouge OST.
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/teenuviel1227)  
> [Tumblr](http://teenuviel1227.tumblr.com)  
> [Curious Cat](http://curiouscat.me/teenuviel1227)

It’s supposed to be simple, really, Jane thinks as she lets Beatrice lead her up the heavy, oak staircase. They wouldn’t even have to get to the actual conceit of the evening: they could just talk and the deal would be in the bag, and anyway that’s what’s gotten Jane this far--her quick wit, her smart-mouth tendencies, her ability to think under pressure.

Her palms are growing sweaty as they get closer and closer to the door at the top of the stairs, a sliver of warm light peeking in from under the door. Sure, she’d known that tonight involved a courtesan and some kind of odd ploy that involved her pretending to be a man--when was she  _ not _ pretending to be a man, anyway?--but she hadn’t counted on Beatrice being so beautiful, hadn’t counted on being entranced like this. It’s supposed to be simple but it isn’t because there’s also the _ other  _ thing: the fact that Jane very much wants to get to the conceit of the evening, very much wants whatever it is that’s supposed to transpire when there is a bed and a locked door in an establishment such as this. 

Of course, not that that’d be possible.

_ Pull yourself together. Think of the play.  _

The lights are dim, made for concealment, not betraying a single footstep on the stairs, the music from the main hall fading out completely as they pass the first landing-- _ the house of your favorite secrets,  _ the slogan outside the establishment read. Her heart is in her throat as Beatrice makes the smallest gestures that drive her mad, little hints at the kind of intimacy assumed would ensue between them behind closed doors: a hand on Jane’s waist as she opened the door to her champers, her soft grip on the inside of Jane’s wrist as she led her into the suite lush with trappings. 

Jane does her best to act as a man would, to brandish the envoy’s stole however awkwardly it’s held in her grip, to hold Beatrice’s hand with all of her strength. (Not much--at this point, she’s quite weak in the knees.)

Now, the door is opened, now they’re through, now the door is being bolted shut, a heavy click sealing her fate.

“Now, Sir,” Beatrice says, reaching over to untie the ribbon of the glittering, skirt-cum-robe and cast it off of Jane’s shoulders so that it falls like a puddle of starlight at her feet. She smiles, blinks up from underneath those long lashes. “Shall we have a drink? A glass of champagne first, maybe, to warm you up? Or would you prefer it after?” 

“Um,” Jane hesitates. She doesn’t do too well with alcohol--had already had two glasses of whiskey in the main hall. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” 

“Oh,” Beatrice says, nodding patiently. “I understand. Yes, sometimes liquor does inhibit the ability for gentlemen to perform. That’s very wise.” 

She sits Jane down on the bed. Jane is sweating behind her three-piece suit, is flustered by the way that the bed feels underneath her, the way that Beatrice’s hands feel on her shoulders. Beatrice unties Jane’s bowtie, undoes the top button on her shirt. Softly, she kisses Jane’s cheek.

Jane smells wine, heady perfume. “I--”

“--it can be a bit warm in here,” Beatrice whispers into her ear before pulling away.

Jane nods, helpless, enthralled. Beatrice reaches over, makes to take off her hat. Jane seizes her hand. “No. No, I’d like to keep my hat on. All evening.” 

Beatrice raises an eyebrow. “Very well, then. It might be a challenge given how robust things tend to get but alright. I won’t keep a man from his preferences.” 

Jane grins, relieved.

Beatrice looks at her contemplatively. 

“Penny for your thoughts, mademoiselle?” Jane asks, following Beatrice with nervous eyes.

Beatrice laughs, soft, waving a hand dismissively. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Sir. But I was just thinking that you’re awfully pretty for a man.” 

Jane finds herself blushing. “Most men from the East are.”

“Do they?” Beatrice asks, a small smile playing on her lips. “I wouldn’t know. I was born in the East but grew up in London before my mother and father died and I was sold to a kind patron here in Paris." 

Jane cocks her head inquisitively to one side. “I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”

“That’s alright. I barely knew them, really. I was only seven. How are things going back in--China was it?” 

“Hong Kong,” Jane corrects. “Things are going rather well. Of course you  _ know _ the trouble with the tea and all of that--”

“--oh, of course. The tea. Terrible.” 

“I’m having a wonderful time in Paris, though,” Jane says, doing her best to play the role to the hilt. “The food is wonderful, the drinks are lovely, the women are beautiful--and of course, the plays  _ sure  _ are something.” 

“Oh the plays!” Beatrice says excitedly. “One of the best patrons in the whole city is a friend of the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps you’ve heard Monsieur Gamja mention The Duke?”

Jane nods seriously. “Why yes, I have. You see, I saw this play--”

“--one of those funded by The Duke?”

“No,” Jane says, shaking her head. “But one I think he would do well to fund. It’s the most beautiful story of love--”

“--speaking of love,” Beatrice says, stepping forward, putting Jane’s hand on her waist. “Perhaps tonight, we shall make some? Would you be so kind as to help me with the ribbons on this corset?”

Jane’s knees quiver, her hands trembling.  _ What to do? What to do? _ She lets her fingertips land on the soft silk of the ribbons as though Beatrice’s bodice is a diamond that might cut her if she presses too hard. She looks up to see Beatrice smiling at her. 

“What?” 

“I--might be out of line here, but--you seem so shy so I’d like to ask. Would this, by any chance, be the...ummm, first time for his eminence?” Beatrice’s voice is low, soft. 

_ Stick to the plan, Jane. Get your head out of the damn gutter. _

“Yes, it happens to be just that.”

Beatrice nods, moving softly toward Jane to sit softly in her lap, straddling her, letting her hair fall over them both like black silk. “Well, then. We’ll take it slow. And really, it would help for you to maybe lose the hat.” 

Jane tries to say something, tries to resist, but her hands are on Beatrice’s waist and Beatrice smells like perfume and flowers and vanilla from custard and Jane’s heart is beating, beating for what feels like the first time--she wants to be  _ seen _ , wants to be seen by Beatrice and see her in return: the curve of her bosom, the fullness of her thighs. And so she lets it happen. 

In an instant, Beatrice lifts off the hat and Jane’s long, platinum-blonde hair comes tumbling down past her shoulders. Beatrice lets out a soft gasp, a hand coming to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.” 

Jane feels her heart pounding. “I--”

“--you’re--”

“Are you disappointed?”

Beatrice smiles, softly. “Surprised, but not disappointed, no. I...you’re--”

“--a woman,” Jane says, rather indignantly.  _ Wonpil’s going to kill me.  _ When she speaks her voice is hopeful, hushed. “Would you still like to proceed?” 

Beatrice doesn’t say anything in response, simply strokes Jane’s long hair, running her fingers through the flaxen length of it--it reminds her of sunshine--before moving to cup Jane’s cheek and kiss her soft, slow. Jane sighs into the kiss, feeling her heart jump, feeling a current of electricity run through her spine as Beatrice pushes her softly onto the bed. As if turning on a light switch, Jane finds her hands have regained their ability to function, her fingers find the soft, ribbon of Beatrice’s corset and begin their blessed work: fabric comes away to reveal miles of silken skin--the soft curve of her shoulders, the line of her collarbones and soft roundness of breasts, the rolling contour of her hips. Beatrice’s hands work at Jane’s shirt, going button after button before peeling it slowly off of her, kissing the hollow of her neck, the line of her shoulders. Jane’s breath hitches as Beatrice finds the pin which holds her binding in place. Beatrice meets her eyes, asking for permission, for approval. 

“Is this alright, err, Sir--”

“--Jane. Call me Jane.”

“May I, Jane?”

Jane nods, bringing her hands to Beatrice’s hips as Beatrice undoes the safety pin, lets the binding come apart. Jane holds her breath as it comes away, feeling Beatrice’s eyes on her. 

“You really shouldn’t bind,” Beatrice says softly, leaning in to kiss her again, her hand coming to softly cup Jane’s breast, letting her thumbs gently graze the soft flesh there, feeling it pucker under her touch. “You’re so beautiful.”

Jane whimpers, holds Beatrice close, pulling her back into a kiss before allowing her hands to wander: the expanse of Beatrice’s back, the soft, pliant swell of her soft thighs.  _ I’m going to die _ . Jane lets out a soft moan as Beatrice kisses down her torso--now, undoing her pants, now slipping her britches off. Beatrice takes a moment to stand, slip out of her own trappings: the silver underwear, the sparkling garters, until they’re both naked, both watching the other. 

And then Jane is pushed back down onto the mattress, and then they’re all hands and soft sighs, fingers finding that soft, slick place in each other, finding the different sounds they can draw from each others’ mouths intoxicating, stronger than any liquor or wine. And then before she can stop to think, Jane realizes Beatrice is kissing down the length of her torso, the hollow of her hips, is looking up at her with those eyes until her lips are there, in that secret, sacred place and a cry escapes Jane like she’s never let out before. Because now, Beatrice’s tongue is licking soft and slow, now Jane is shaking with pleasure like she never has before, now she is the ocean raging against the shore when all she’s ever known is the faint trickling of rain. 

Beatrice, too, finds her heart pounding, her breathing heavy and labored as she holds Jane’s quivering thighs apart with shaking hands, as she tastes her on her tongue--everything at once: sugar and liquor, salt and malt. It is by no means her first time doing any of it--but it’s the first time like this, the first time she finds her soul rising up to meet her body, the first time she knows that even if she had been otherwise employed, she would do this still. With Jane, she would do this forever if she could.  
  


 

Since Brian’s come into his life, Jae has been infinitely more productive with the screenplay that he’s writing. He’s gotten the greenlight on the first two episodes: he’s informed that his friends from back home are being flown over that Tuesday--Woon to start with the story boarding, Jinnie to look for a good place to shoot. He’d told Brian about this, saying they should definitely have a dinner thing, they would love him. Brian, both glad and a little nervous (he wants Jae’s friends to approve), says that the timing is perfect: his bestfriend Pil is also flying in that following week. They could have a small, cozy mixer. 

These days, Jae comes over to write, making coffee for them as Brian practices in the other room. They keep the door open so that Jae catches a glimpse of movement, so that Brian can hear the soft tapping of the keys as Jae writes and writes and writes, both of them taking comfort in knowing the other is there, just a room away albeit doing their own thing. 

They’re taking it slow: go on dates to the cinema where Brian likes to mimic the leading men in all of the rom-coms, where he makes funny faces that sends Jae clutching his stomach, which Jae likes more than the actual movies that they go there to see. On afternoons where it’s warm enough, they make like tourists (Jae cringes, saying this is exactly the kind of stuff that he’d been looking to avoid) and take the sunset boat ride down the river, kissing softly as the boat emerges from underneath the bridge, everything becoming bright and warm and golden. On some nights, when Brian finishes practice early, when Jae has an especially productive day, they treat themselves to a good dinner at one of the restaurants that Brian loves, which is slowly becoming one of Jae’s favorite haunts too. Otherwise, they stay in: Brian cooking, Jae doing the dishes after. Sometimes they fall asleep on the couch together. Sometimes, Jae crosses the street to head home and they spend the remainder of that time between sleep and waking on the phone, giggling and making  _ no, you hang up first _ jokes. 

“You done for the day, baby?” Jae asks, looking up as Brian walks out of the practice room, still sweaty,  his face towel slung across his shoulders.

Brian nods, grinning. “Yeah. Pretty much. How about you?” 

He watches as Jae pouts, typing a few things up, looking at it again and then hitting backspace before typing again.  _ He’s so cute when he’s serious.  _

“Just a few things...okay, there. Got it.” He looks up at Brian, grinning. He takes the sight of Brian in: he’s always glowing after practice, the after-effect of being in his element somehow lending him a kind of light. His brown eyes brighter, his smile coming more easily, his skin a brighter honey. 

Brian plops down next to Jae on the couch, puts his laptop down on the coffee table. Jae grins as Brian snuggles into the crook of his shoulder. Jae kisses Brian’s forehead. Brian grins, bringing his arms around Jae’s waist. 

“How’s the screenplay going? And are you ever going to let me read it?” 

Jae laughs. “Maybe when it’s ready. But I’ll give you a spoiler, how’s that?”

“I’ll give you a spoiler,how’s that?” Brian mimics. “Of course, give me a spoiler! Let’s hear it.” 

“Okay, well. It’s set in the 1900s--the Moulin Rouge. And there are two timelines that occur. In the past, the protagonists meet and obviously, there’s something in the way: money, maybe, like in the film. Or maybe something else, another central conflict but I haven’t decided what yet. And then they meet again in the present and there’s an odd connection there.” 

“Do they end up together?” Brian asks.

“They might,” Jae says. “Once I figure out the central conflict, then I’ll decide. Money seems too obvious. Like yes, the character is a courtesan--but not all courtesans are fools for gold. I don’t want to write it that way.” 

Brian pauses, thinks about it a moment, remembers this recurring dream that he has where he’s dancing on a stage gilded with bright lights, the audience hushed in awe before erupting into near-blinding applause--it’s one of his favorite good dreams, one he always hopes he has before he goes to bed. In that dream, Brian is a woman. In that dream, he feels softer, but also fiercer, stronger. 

“Maybe they’re girls? Gender is something that hasn’t been explored through those kinds of plots. We have things like Mulan where a girl pretends to be a boy but the person who falls in love with her is always a man too. What if she was a woman? There would be a lot of conflict there, for sure. History has been cruel to women, to queer people. It could be a redemption story.” 

Jae smiles a small smile. “Huh. Right. You’re right, I think that might work.” 

Brian chuckles. “And if it has a happy ending, then I might just read it. Or watch the drama.” 

Jae raises an eyebrow. “Not one for tragedia, babe?”

Brian shakes his head. 

“No. No, I don’t have the stomach for it.” 

  
  


After, they bask in the glow of each other. Jane, eyes newly opened, feeling like everything before this has been a dream. Maybe Wonpil would kill her, but people die all the time: she figures, she may as well die like this--in love and in the arms of a beautiful woman. She gives the secrets up like they’re things of childhood: miniscule, however precious, faraway now in the golden moment. 

Beatrice is entranced, feels her heart beating for the first time in her entire life. All her life, she has been business-minded, hasn’t quite been able to buy the story of how she came to the Moulin Rouge as a tragedy, but now, watching as Jane does up the buttons on her oversized white shirt, watching the way that she sweeps her flaxen hair--my sunshine girl--into a ponytail, the way she squints a little as she puts her glasses back on, the way she smiles as she rolls them each a cigarette, Beatrice’s heart lurches with sadness, longing.

Tragédie.

What a tragedy it is to love the sea and know you would never be able to return to it. At least, not soon. At least, not while The Duke funds the place where you live and eat and breathe. Not for a price that, now that the truth has been told, she knows Jane can’t afford to pay. Tonight itself had been hard enough to arrange. She’d always thought of the Moulin Rouge as her fortress: her palace of lights, keeping its shining diamond close, precious. Tonight, it feels like a prison, and Jane her only escape. 

When Jane tells her about the play, their conceit, the things they have in mind, Beatrice already knows she will agree if it means seeing Jane again. 

Jane is singing softly, now. Her voice the most gentle, silken melody that Beatrice has ever heard. 

_ Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place _

_ Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace _

_ Suddenly my life doesn´t seem such a waste _

_ It all revolves around you _

_ And there´s no mountain too high _

_ No river too wide _

_ Sing out this song I´ll be there by your side _

_ Storm clouds may gather _

_ And stars may collide _

_ But I love you until the end of time _

“It’s a story about love that spans through the ages,” Jane says. “They’re lovers but it isn’t allowed because she is a woman married to a very powerful man. And the man she is in love with is a poet, penniless. So they don’t make it in that life but in the future, they find each other unbeknownst to them.” 

“That sounds like a wonderful play,” Beatrice says, taking the cigarette and lighting it up, resting her head in the crook of Jane’s shoulder as she, too, takes a drag. “I should like to think every every sad thing has its turn in happiness, too? I quite like redemption stories.”

Jane grins. “You know sometimes, you talk like you’re in a play." 

“Sometimes you talk like you’re in a play,” Beatrice mimics playfully, planting a soft kiss onto Jane’s cheek. “All my life’s been a play, my sunshine girl.” 

“Your sunshine girl, huh,” Jane repeats, grinning.

Beatrice chuckles. “I’ll talk to The Duke about it in the morning. I think he would be amenable.” 

Jane feels a pang of jealousy at the thought of The Duke in Beatrice’s bed, at the thought of them entwined, like this. Of them, at all. 

“I think I quite despise him,” Jane says, smiling sadly to herself. “For getting to have you like this more often than I ever will.”

“He...well, I’m sure you know that there are some things you have to do. Some things that you have to do not because you like them, but because they help you live the kind of life you want to live. No one cleans their house for the sake of cleaning their house. They tidy up because it makes it livable. That’s how The Duke and I are, I suppose. He isn’t anyone I’ll ever want, but in as far as things go, he’s paid for my keep. And I can’t help but be grateful somewhat. And he promised me that this year, I would star in the play.” 

Jane grins at that, puts her cigarette out on the nearby ashtray. “You would be lovely in this. The only downside is that I’d never be able to play the leading man. And in a way, I don’t want to. Pretending to be a man  _ once _ is enough.” 

Beatrice laughs, kisses Jane’s shoulder before blowing a thin stream of smoke up into the air. “You’re far more attractive than any man I’ve ever met.” 

Jane looks into Beatrice’s eyes. “Let’s make love one last time before the night ends. I want to commit it to memory in case I never get the chance again.” 

Beatrice puts her cigarette out. “You and I both, my sunshine girl.”  
  


 

Dinner smells heavenly. Brian had come over earlier to cook for them, prepare them a feast that’s a mix of all types of food: the dessert, of course, they’d kept French, but he’d made Chipotle for a very homesick Jae, some tteokbokki for Woon and Jinnie, who bring the wine. Pil arrives late, having been stuck in traffic her flight delayed by about an hour. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry--I’m probably giving you all a terrible impression of me--” Pil is slender, light-footed, with a ballerina’s gait. 

If Jae hadn’t known better, he would probably be jealous: she’s beautiful, petite with bright, gorgeous eyes that are familiar, friendly. 

“--it’s okay,” Brian says. “Everyone’s just kind of settled down, anyway, Pillie. So. These are Jae’s friends. Ms. Yoon Siwoon, storyboarder, and Ms. Park Yoojin, in charge of set design and location.” 

“Great to meet you guys.” Pil sits down beside Jinnie, clapping her on the back. “So. Did anyone bring whiskey? Brian’s a wine enthusiast, but I’ve always been a Bastille kind of girl myself.” 

Woon laughs at that, runs a hand through her short pixie cut. Pil notices that on her arm is a tattoo of the twin masks of theater--comedy and tragedy facing each other. Woon turns to Jinnie, raises an eyebrow. 

“I  _ told _ you we should’ve brought the single malt.” 

Jinnie waves her off, tossing her head, letting her long, dark hair fall gracefully down her back. 

“I was just being considerate. Jae lets us know he’s got a boyfriend for the first time in fifty million years, I wasn’t going to take any chances of making bad impression on our gaybie’s boyf. So when Jae said Brian liked wine, then I was gonna make sure that we got the damn wine.” 

Brian laughs. “Don’t worry. Pil’s just trying to brag about how badass she is. She probably brought her own bottle.” 

Jae’s eyes widen. “For real?”

Pil grins, fondly swatting at Brian's arm. “You always give the game away.” 

With that, she pulls a bottle of whiskey out of her shoulder bag slung on the back of the chair. 

“So, Jae,” Pil says, setting the bottle down. “I watched most of your dramas on the flight here. I loved the one with Park Bogum in it. And the one with Yoo Inna was phenomenal. I cried my eyes out and the guy next to me on the flight kept looking at me like I was crazy. Not bad, my man. But if I may, could you write something happy for once?” 

Jae glances fondly at Brian. “Yeah. Yeah, this time I think I will.”  
  


 

Rehearsal for the play takes a toll on them: yes, there is the rush of seeing each other, yes, there is the thrill of having this secret thread between them, having the hushed whispers and rushed kisses backstage, but The Duke goes to every session. But Gamja watches Beatrice like a hawk. 

“I don’t want him to kiss her,” The Duke says, nodding at Wonpil, who’s been assigned the role of leading man. 

Wonpil lets go of Beatrice. 

“He can be such a prick,” Beatrice mutters under her breath.

Wonpil grins. “If only he knew I was the queerest gentleman to walk the Earth. Queerer than if Wilde and Sappho had a baby.”

“But that’s why it’s called true love’s kiss,” Jane interrupts, her temper rising. “Because they have to, as a matter of fact, kiss.” 

“Well, then,” The Duke says. “Re-write it. I’m sure the kiss can be implied, somehow.” 

“Re- _ write _ it?” Jane repeats. “Oh well if it were  _ that  _ easy then--”

“--Monsieur Park,” Gamja cuts in. “I think you’re forgetting your place. The Duke is our patron and without him, we could easily have you replaced and commandeer this production ourselves. We could run you out on the streets, take your crew--”

_ Over my dead body, you asshole.  _

“--apologies, Monsieur Gamja,” Sungjin cuts in. “We can do the implied kiss--nothing needs to be re-written, we’ll just drop the curtains a second before their lips meet. And rest assured that if you were to throw Jay here out on the streets, your production would be short a costumer, a director, a playwright, and leading man.” 

Beatrice and Jane’s eyes meet from across the stage. Beatrice smiles. 

_ And a leading lady.  _

Later, the tide of desire becomes too much to bear--Jane presses Beatrice up against the heavy curtains of backstage, hands finding their way under her skirt, skimming up her thigh as Beatrice kisses her slow, intense, as if to echo her final lines in the play:  _ I will love you until the end of time.  _ Beatrice sighs soft under Jane’s hands, knowing that the way that she lingers at her throat, the way that she nibbles on her lower lip is her way of saying  _ I know. It’s tearing me apart, but I know.  _

They don’t notice The Duke walking past the adjacent corridor, noticing the rustle of the curtain, recognizing the heel of Beatrice’s shoe peeking out from under the velvet. He’d bought it after all. He’d paid for it, after all. 

  
  


The first night that they make love, Jae and Brian find themselves both dreaming of the sea. Jae dreams of himself as a woman, naked in the moonlight, sighing as the water envelopes him. Brian dreams that he is the ocean and for once, has found something worth thrashing endlessly against the shore for. 

When they wake up the next day, Jae shuffles to the kitchen and decides to be the one to cook for Brian for once. He tries to be quiet, accidentally elbows the doorframe on the way out, lets out a small yelp. Brian wakes up when Jae gets out of bed, but figures he knows what Jae’s going to do--pretends to be asleep but smiles against the pillow as he hears Jae let out his muffled  _ ouch _ on the way out of the bedroom.

Brian falls back asleep shortly after, this time he dreams the dream with the brightly lit stage, but he knows it’s not the same one. He’s dressed differently, this dress sparkling too but black as ebony, as the night. Somewhere, the smell of gunpowder--and then a woman in his arms, her blonde hair like sunshine spilling out onto the dark shimmer of her dress. A red blossom blooms  on her chest. 

Brian wakes up crying. 

In the kitchen, Jae scalds himself on the coffee pot and lets out a yelp. 

Brian bolts upright, runs out to him. 

_ Not again,  _ he finds himself thinking without quite knowing why.  _ No, I’m not going to lose you again.  _

  
  


It comes out of nowhere. The play is a success, survives four runs. The fifth night it happens. The fifth night, they’ve already turned a profit. The fifth night Jane and Beatrice have made a plan to runaway, get out of France, maybe move to the Americas. Wonpil has arranged the tickets for the boat, Sungjin has staged the party which would serve as a diversion, Dowoon would drive them himself in a carriage borrowed from his cousin. The fifth night, Jane insists on being the one to bring Beatrice the flowers during curtain call. Beatrice watches her, then, in that moment--one that will burn bright in  her mind’s eye until the day that she dies. Jane, smiling up at her from under those glasses. Jane holding a bouquet of white roses. Jane mouthing  _ I love you so much.  _

And then gunpowder.  


And then pandemonium.

And then Jane in her arms, hat flung off, blonde hair spilling like all the sunshine Beatrice would never find again. 

_ No. No no no.  _

  
  


“Why are you crying, baby?” Jae lets Brian hold him close, strokes his hair. He’d burned himself on the coffee pot, had run his wrist under cold water. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I worried you. Did I yell too loud--” 

Brian is breathless from sobbing, looks up at Jae from where a tear-patch has soaked through Jae’s shirt. “--I thought I’d lost you. I thought something terrible happened. I was so worried.” 

“It was a bad dream,” Jae says, wiping Brian’s tears away with his thumbs, kissing him softly on the forehead, the nose, the apples of his cheeks, his lips. “It was just a bad dream. I’m here. I’m here, alright? I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Brian nods, pulling Jae back in for a hug again. He rests his head on Jae’s shoulder, closing his eyes. He whispers something under his breath that Jae doesn’t quite catch. He pulls away slightly, glancing down at Brian.

“What’s that, BriBri?” 

Brian smiles at Jae, kisses him on the cheek.

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

“I love you, Brian.”

“I love you too, Jae.”


End file.
